


Coffee (Is My Great Star)

by mydickisthealpha



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison Argent & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Hales are alive, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Bromance, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-03-07 01:36:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3156041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydickisthealpha/pseuds/mydickisthealpha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles keeps embarrassing himself in front of Derek. It's pretty bad, until it isn't. (Obligatory Coffeeshop AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's Like Ice on the Nipple

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't ever going to post this, because I'm generally bad at writing. But this is probably the most I've ever written ever and I'm tired of letting my anxiety get the best of me. I started writing this like... two years ago when I still watched Teen Wolf. I do not watch Teen Wolf anymore. Admittedly, I still cannot let go of Sterek, nor can I let go of Scott, Lydia, and Allison. And Erica and Boyd... and Isaac... and J..ackso....n... Basically, I can't let go of s1 and s2, alright?? So here, take this first part of whatever it is I'm doing with this, and pray I update if you happen to like it.

Stiles has been building himself up to this for months, learning the man’s coffee preferences (a double chocolate cinnamon latte, with lots of added sugar, probably to balance out whatever darkness in his soul makes his eyebrows do that angry thing he’s perfected), his favorite morning pastry (bear claw, of course, because he’s hulking like a lumberjack, stubble and all), and even his name (but that one’s easy because they always call it out when his coffee is done). He’s seen the man’s eyes shimmering, seemingly shifting between colors, in the afternoon light, his dark hair a nice contrast against his pale skin. He’s longed to touch the expanse of his back, under the stretch of his shirt, and to feel that stubble against his own face.

He’s been whining to Scott about it for just as long, lamenting his inability to just get up enough chutzpah to go over there and be rejected to his face. Derek--that’s his name--his coffee shop romance wrapped in sinfully tight leather, probably wouldn’t even look up at him. He always has his nose pressed securely into a book, thick- framed, black reading glasses sliding down his thin nose and hooking onto his sharp, ever flaring nostrils.

People had gone up to him before, pretty people (prettier than Stiles, though Stiles doesn’t think he’s ugly, really, he’s just not a Scott and definitely not a Derek); Derek had barely even acknowledged their hovering presence at his table.

But Scott had had enough of Stiles’ whining (which is honestly so hypocritical because Allison turns Scott into the grossest person in the world and Stiles has been listening to that train wreck for years). Lo, Scott had told Stiles to man up, go over there and just say hi; the worst that could happen being Stiles’ total, crushing humiliation and broken heart. No big deal.

So here he is, pumping himself up, wringing his hands nervously, taking sip after sip of a replica of Derek’s coffee order (which is a terrible idea because the caffeine does not mix well with any part of him).

“Just gonna... go over. Gonna,” he chops the air, “do it. Not do it, do it, though that would be... nice--ok.”

He just has to get up and go over there and try not to say anything too stupid.

So, naturally, he does the exact opposite.

“I’d like to have your children,” he blurts when he reaches the table, and Derek barely stops himself from spilling his coffee all over the book he’s reading. He looks up sharply and then his eyebrows get even angrier (who even knew that was possible?), as he sizes Stiles up.

“Did Laura put you up to this?” Derek growls, slamming his coffee back down on the table. “I told her to stop doing this. Does she give you money?”

“But I’m not--”

“HA. `Knot’. I get it,” he raises his mouth into a mordant smile, and Stiles really doesn’t think he does get it, “So funny. I’ve never heard knot jokes before. What are you? A witch? Tell Laura I’m done with her games.” He shoves away from the table, grabbing his book and his drink, and he leaves...

Stiles tries to process the situation. Welp, he’s done it. He’s the only person to have driven someone clinically insane with a pickup line.

* * *

 

Stiles spends a lot of time avoiding the coffee shop after that. Well, okay, it’s only been about a week and Stiles is aching for one of their sinfully delicious, chocolate (sprinkled) brownies, with an accompanied Derek-watching session. See, though, he can’t stop thinking about his absolute failure.

Instead of people looking at Derek after the usual rejection (because Derek had stormed out after his eyebrows did a weird tribal-like dance on his forehead), everyone had been blatantly staring at Stiles with a mix of mortification (because he had scared away the huge, imposing, object of their lust) and pity (because, Lord knew, they’d seen it before).

It wasn’t even the rejection part that got him (much) (well, ok, it got to him a lot, but just don’t), it was the words Derek had said to him. `Knot jokes’? He had actually asked Stiles if he was a witch. Who even does that?

Sighing, Stiles looks at the screen of his lap top; his old friend Google is open in front of him, judgmental as it waits for whatever crazy (or kinky) search Stiles has for it this time. He’s actually supposed to be doing his homework and trying to forget his embarrassment by keeping his mind preoccupied (Allison has the best advice), but something just doesn’t seem right.

Okay, so, knots. Simple enough search. He types quickly, hits enter and starts reading.

Twenty minutes later and he still doesn’t quite know what he’s supposed be looking for. There’s been some pretty informative reading material on fishing knots, knots for rope, automotive knots, and mathematical knots. He taps the side of his computer, licks his lips, and types in, `witch’ next to the word `knot’.

Images of a symbol pop up and the next thing Stiles knows is that the sun is up and he’s spent the entire night researching witchcraft and all that it entails, specifically so he can understand the angry (albeit confusing) questioning of a stranger he may or may not be in love with.

Such is his life.

His alarm rings next to him, jolts him out of his thoughts, and he lets out a noise of frustration as he ditches his laptop to get ready for classes.

Classes, of course, are painfully slow and he falls asleep halfway through the boring drone of his professor in his last class. Someone is kind enough to wake him and he murmurs a thanks as he picks up his stuff, wiping the drool from his face.

He’s so tired that he doesn’t even realize where he is until he’s in line at the motherfucking coffee shop. He blinks slowly, tilts his head to the side, as if to ponder if he’s actually awake or not, before the cashier is waving her hand in front of his face and asking him if he’s okay.

“Um,” he says, sharp as ever. The barista, Katie, a pretty cool chick with multi- colored hair that he’s talked to plenty of times, because he basically lives here, is trying not to laugh. She’s obviously seen more than one college student like this before.

“Okay, how about I start you off with something with espresso, you go sit down with it, and then come back up when you’re jittering with caffeine?” She suggests, and Stiles can only nod. She rings him up and writes something on his cup. It’s a name, of course, and probably a pop culture reference because he never gives them the same name twice.

He stands around as he waits for the scalding drip of the espresso machine to wind down, catching himself staring at random things until the barista is saying, “Darth Vader, your espresso is ready.” He snaps out of it, thanks her, gives her a compliment for a job well done, and turns--

\--only to slam right into a brick wall of a person.

The espresso splatters over both of them, burning immediately. Stiles flails, waving his hands around his chest uselessly as the coffee melts his skin off. He’s tempted to scream, `What a world, what a world!’, if he could actually get anything other than a high pitched whine to come out of his mouth.

“Are you okay, Vader?” Katie asks as she comes around the counter, handing him a bag of ice that he promptly pushes up under his shirt.

“I think my nipples,” Stiles swears, “are no longer a part of my body.”

Katie cracks up as she goes back to the counter, and he glares at her uselessly, because he’s sure he looks imposing with a bag of ice cooling his nips. Then he remembers he ran into another person, and that `another person’ is Derek, whose mouth is set in a tense line. He’s rejected his bag of ice, but has dirtied napkins in his hand, and a stained Henley to match.

“D-dude,” the word makes Derek’s expression sour (even more), “I’m so sorry, I didn’t even see you. Which is kind of hard considering,” he contorts his countenance into a sturgeon face, referencing with his free hand to Derek’s entire body, “woah. Four dozen eggs every morning. I’m just ridiculously tired, I was up on Google researching about kn-- no-- noncoital sex?” Stiles stops talking, his lips parted in shock as his brain catches up with his mouth.

Derek narrows his eyes at him.

“For educational purposes,” Stiles tries to play off nonchalantly, “I totally did this paper once on the entire history of the male circumcision for Economics. For educational... reasons.” God, where is his father with a gun when Stiles needs him? Not that he really wants his father to hear about him talking about penis and noncoital sex. Not that it would be the first time, though. He looks down, eyes sweeping to the side as he reminds himself to thank his father for putting up with him.

Derek seems to be even angrier than before, grabbing Stiles’ arm in a grip that is decidedly not very friendly.

“What the hell is Laura telling you? How does she even-- you have something against non-circumcised penises?”

“Wow,” Stiles says, amazed at the abrupt change of focus, “I think your brain works at a rate faster than mine, which should be illegal? There should be people specifically trained to stop us from over thinking.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“Why does it matter what I think about penis?” Stiles asks, and looks around when he remembers he’s in a crowded coffee shop. Nobody seems to have heard, besides an older lady who is giving Stiles the stank eye. But she’s always giving Stiles the stank eye, so he ignores it. Derek heaves a frustrated sigh through his nostrils, gritting his teeth.

“Tell Laura that if this is her way of apologizing, she’s got a long way to go,” Derek releases his wrist, and Stiles rubs at it. Derek turns to go, but Stiles’ face shifts into an unbelieving stare as he grabs Derek’s shoulder. Derek looks down at his hand like it’s something offensive, so Stiles scoffs.

“Okay, first of all, I don’t know any Laura, and I really don’t think I want to considering the weird shit she dabbles in, buddy. Ha, yeah. Secondly, just because you’re incredibly attractive, doesn’t mean you get to be a douchepancake to everyone around you. You’d probably be best fucking friends with Jackson, because he smothers himself in jerksyrup every morning. It’s like, Jesus, Jackson, what’s wrong with Aunt Jemima?” Stiles begins to turn, but stops, anger igniting as he realizes he also lost his coffee and he’s still dead tired. “And you know what? I don’t care if I want to plaster myself to your body, or hold your dumb hand. You literally ruined my life. I didn’t have to worry about your stupid face before this, or the way you sometimes look at your books like they’re something precious, and I definitely did not have to stay up all night researching knots and witches, what the fuck? I was going to be a responsible college student who had many good times in several different positions, but that’s all ruined because I’m addicted to coffee... and leather, apparently! That’s right, unbelievable.”

And this time it’s Stiles who’s stomping out of the shop, everyone’s eyes on Derek as he watches Stiles go. 

* * *

 

So Stiles is definitely not ever going back to that coffee shop ever again, ever.

“Stiles, come on, it’s not that bad, dude.”

Stiles can hear the smile in Scott’s voice, and throws the pillow he’s been using to suffocate himself with in his best friend’s face. Scott, annoyingly, catches it with ease and holds onto it as he crawls into the bed with Stiles. He throws an arm around Stiles, knocking the air from his chest.

“Whyyyyy,” he whines, wondering what he did in a past life to deserve this shoddy existence.

“It’s definitely not that bad, Stiles,” Scott says cheerfully, but he has a lot of room to talk because all he had to do to get Allison to love him was give her a pen when she didn’t have one.

“Yes it is. I called him a douchepancake and admitted I wanted to hold his hand. It may have worked for The Beatles, but I am not a famous music artist with Englishman charm or an accent. I might as well resign myself to living alone for the rest of my life, or turn into one of those guys from The Jersey Shore. Stiles `The Situation’ Stilinski, with a blowout and a pickle fetish. I’ll be dancing on tables and calling myself a meatball. I’m not getting pregnant, though.”

Scott laughs, snuggling in closer, and Stiles sighs.

“I’m not good alone, Scott,” he admits, sounding small to his own ears. He’s already been too much alone in his own life, and he’s seen what alone does to grown men. His dad had narrowly escaped becoming an alcoholic when they’d lost Stiles’ mother. He had been going through life like a zombie until Melissa had patched his dad up one night. They’d known about each other, but both of them had been so lost in their own, well, loss, that they hadn’t quite recognized each other as potential partners. Stiles already loved Melissa like a second mother, and he was happy for his dad, and he was going to let him finish, but it did nothing to soothe the ache of loss in his own heart.

“I’ll always be here for you,” Scott suggests, and Stiles smiles in spite of himself, until the doorbell rings.

“Oops, um, forgot to mention that I invited Allison and her friend over?”

“Ugh, get out,” Stiles shoves him playfully, turning onto his side so his back is to Scott. Scott barks out a laugh and straddles Stiles’ hip, kissing his face as he tumbles off the bed. Stiles hears him open the door, and debates on whether he should greet Allison or not. Allison is awesome.

He groans, but pushes himself up, fluffs up his hair a little bit, and walks into the room. Allison, Scott, and another brunette (Stiles will never understand the plethora of dark haired beauties around this place) are chatting near the front door, but Allison turns when she sees him from her peripheral view.

“Hey you!” Allison greets, pecking him on the cheek. She pauses as she pulls away and then frowns slightly. “Uh oh, I know that face.” She gives him an apologetic smile, dimples and all. “Does this have anything to do with your coffee shop romance?”

Stiles visibly deflates, letting his head hang back a bit as he pouts.

“You must be Stiles,” the brunette girl says, extending her hand, “I’m Laura.”

“Nice to meet you,” he shakes her hand, and her grip is really firm. He matches the grip and she gives him a somewhat predatory grin. She looks oddly familiar, sharp features, dark brows, light eyes... But Stiles can’t place it.

They all go to sit down after they grab drinks, Scott, Allison, and Laura on the couch, and Stiles cross-legged on the floor.

“He called him a douchepancake and something about The Beatles?” Scott half- asks, looking to Stiles for direction.

“I told him I wanted to hold his dumb hand. I literally said `dumb hand’ while holding a bag of ice against my nipple, Allison, why weren’t you there to distract him with your perfection or some sort of gross display of affection with Scott?”

“You insulted him?” Allison asks, looking truly concerned.

“After I spilled my scolding coffee all over him, yeah, and somehow offended him by mentioning circumcision. And before that he was all, `you’re a witch’,” Laura chokes on her can of Coke, “and I felt like the stupid one in that equation.”

“Well, it’s good that you found out he’s actually a terrible person, I think,” Scott declares, and Allison cards her hand through his hair affectionately.

“Yeah, he could’ve been really bad for you,” she agrees.

“But... you guys. You haven’t-- you aren’t there. Putting aside the fact that he looks like some sort of underwear model slash also every other model known to man, the way he looks at his books sometimes... Like he knows the characters in the books personally. And sometimes he’ll be on the phone with whoever, and he’ll have this crinkly-eyed smile that we so rarely get to see because he’s a neanderthal, and I just... I really want to see him smiling like that all the time. Because he looks lonely, when he stares out of the window and I know how... I know.”

“Wow, seems like you really like this guy,” Laura comments, smiling at him fondly, “despite calling him a douchepancake. A + for creativity, 10/10, will use in the future.”

Stiles laughs wryly.

“I think you should try again. If the way you’re describing him is right, perhaps he’s just scared of letting people in, you know?”

Stiles shrugs.

“I don’t even know how to come back from this one,” he admits.

“Well, start by going back to the coffee shop. Sit in your usual spot and ignore him if you see him. If he looks up at you, away from his distraction of books, then he’s interested. That’s the first step.”

Stiles perks up, scoots a bit closer.

“What’s the second step?”

“Well, you’ll just have to wait until you see if he’s interested first. Don’t want to get your hopes up, you know.”

The doorbell stops the words on the tip of Stiles’ tongue, and he jolts up.

“Shit, what time is it?”

“Almost 4pm?” Allison answers, glancing at her wrist watch.

“That’ll be Boyd, I thought it was still 2 something. I promised I’d help with a paper. It was nice meeting you Laura, I’ll, uh, try your suggestion.”

“Good luck, Stiles!” She answers, her eyes twinkling... probably with murder and chaos.

Stiles reminds himself not to let Laura meet Lydia.

* * *

 

The first thought in his mind, obviously, is `what the fuck am I doing here?’, but the only answer in his mind is, `I’m doing it all for the nookie’, which he proceeds to write in the open Microsoft Word in front of him. He’s earlier than normal, sipping a simple coffee, waiting for the inevitable moment Derek will come in and completely ignore him. He keeps erasing lines of text for his paper (and writing answers to his own questions, obviously), utterly unfocused.

He’s aware that people’s eyes are on him every few moments, customers entering and leaving the shop staring at him because of his outburst earlier in the week. He doesn’t pay them any mind, despite the blotches of red on his cheeks saying otherwise. They aren’t his first priority, anyway.

He doesn’t have to wait very long, because Derek comes skulking into his peripheral vision. Stiles is in his normal seat, across from the front door, with a view of Derek’s regular seat in his line of sight. Stiles doesn’t look up, though, forces himself to type as his Spotify changes to a Stars of Track and Field song.

Derek pauses once he’s inside and Stiles wills himself not to look. Derek seems to linger for a moment, but then makes his way to his own chair, lifting his satchel from over his shoulder and placing it on the back of his chair. He takes out a book.

Stiles focuses back into his essay, the music taking him over, and before he knows it, his coffee is gone and half his paper is written. He remembers Derek suddenly, swinging his head over without thought in a move his father would probably reprimand him for as being `too obvious’. It’s okay, though, as his gaze meets Derek’s immediately.

He’s been looking at Stiles instead of reading. Stiles thinks of it as a win, a thrill chasing all the way down into his stomach, but looks away, seemingly uninterested in the turn of events. Maybe he should leave... but then that would give away what he was trying to do, right? He jerks back away from the table and grabs his coffee for a refill, takes his time filling it with an undoubtedly ridiculous amount sugar and cream, and then sits back down.

His phone starts jangling a tune, L.L. Cool J telling him that his mother said to knock Stiles out, so he’s going to knock Stiles out. The ID says Lydia, and he knows better than to keep the redhead waiting.

“Hello, o’ star of my heart,” he answers, and Lydia lets out a sharp laugh.

“Hello, o’ never going to happen.” Stiles can hear the smile in her voice, though, and grins warmly to himself. He used to have this huge, mega-crush on Lydia throughout... his entire childhood and teenage years. It had taken becoming best friends with her to realize they’d always be better off as friends. Plus, he couldn’t deny that her and Jackson were meant to be, even if Jackson did douse himself in asshole cologne daily. If Jackson were a cologne, he’d be Ass Spice. Coincidentally, that’d also be his Spice Girls persona.

Still, being best friends with Lydia is as good as anything. While she is no Scott, because they were practically raised together, she is definitely someone just as essential to Stiles’ survival. When he’s angry at Scott, he can always find Lydia and she whips him back into shape, and he’s there for her as much as she needs him, which she never admits to.

“What can I do you for?”

“Haha. Stiles, are you at the coffee shop?”

“Yes, ma’am. Why, you wanting to go on a date with me?”  
  
“Exactly, yes, thank you,” she says, and hangs up. Stiles stares at his phone, before the chime announces another presence and Lydia is standing there, shopping bag hanging from the crook of her elbow, hand purse and phone in one hand. She slips her shades up to the top of her head and looks around until she spots him, her red lips curving upwards as she strolls over, high, high heels clacking against the floor.

“Well, that was fast. I’m that irresistible, huh?” He jokes, but Lydia smiles, bends to give him a kiss on the cheek, and sits in front of him.

“I just wanted to see your face, Stiles,” she says softly, and woah. What is going on?

“Uh.” Color him confused.

“Ooh, are you writing that paper on that thing, let me see?” She jerks the laptop away from him and reads a little. “Oh, let me fix this part.”

She types a bit and then shoves the laptop back, and it reads:

`I’m here to make your boy jealous. Allison told me. Hunk with the book, right? Tall, dark, and sinful? Very nice, Stiles. I’m impressed.’ Stiles’ eyebrows raise a little, eyes flickering towards Derek. His book is up, but his eyes are trained on Stiles, slicing back to the novel as soon as he realizes Stiles is looking back at him. Stiles mouth slants into a smile, lips stretching thin as he flushes.

“Thanks, I didn’t know how to word that sentence.” He plays along, wonders if Derek can hear them from there. It wouldn’t surprise him, they’re not that far away from each other.

“Anything for you,” Lydia answers, makes sure she leans forward and purrs a little, and Stiles a few years ago would’ve died, but now it just makes him extremely fond of her (and Erica, because that move is so Erica).

“So, get anything good?” He gestures to the bags she’s set at her feet, and she sighs.

“Well, I found a few dresses, but I think I’ll give most of them to Allison,” she takes a sip of Stiles’ coffee and scrunches her face up, “Wow, that is gross. Do they have green tea here?”

“Yeah, let me get you something.” She grins at him, and he stands, keeps his eyes lowered as he makes his way over to the counter, asking for a green tea. Lydia is beautiful, and she’s classy, too, her legs, in black tights, crossed under her floral skater dress. She’s wearing a simple cardigan, but she looks straight off a magazine anyway, red hair bright and alluring in the early afternoon sunlight.

Stiles orders a simple, cold, peach green tea under Lydia’s name, waits for it, and then makes his way back to set it on the table in front of her.

“Mmm, peach. Exactly what I was wanting today. You’re so good to me, Stiles.” She winks at him, but he can see she’s still pleased with his choice for her. She takes another dainty sip, and holds her face in the crook of her hand, prim as she blinks.

“How is everything, really?” Stiles asks, leans forward a little. Lydia stops blinking, gives him a strained smile, and then looks down at the condensation on the green tea.

“Fine. Normal. Jacks is doing therapy, as you know. It’s helping,” she tries not to give anything away, but he can tell how tired the thought of it all seems to make her. Stiles and Jackson might not get along that well, but they’re still, by Lydia- forced-extension, friends. Jackson had always had problems, wondering about his real parents all throughout his life. He seemed to have snapped before college, three years ago in senior year of high school; started going down a dark road, hanging around with the wrong people.

Scott, Stiles, Allison, Danny, and Lydia had to stage an intervention, and the guy selling Jackson drugs, Matt Daehler, a creepy guy from the same school, was arrested after tons of research that lead to some pretty nasty things on the dude. Lydia and Stiles had probably bonded the most at that time, and Stiles thinks he earned Lydia’s respect because it had been his impressive detective skills that ultimately lead to Matt’s arrest.

“Glad to hear it,” he murmurs, clicking save on his document and closing it. He’s not going to get anything done with Lydia `Too Fabulous For Real Life’ Martin in front of him and Derek `I May Be Interested In You’ Whatever His Last Name Is staring from his seat.

Lydia purses her lips, squints her eyes a bit, and then smiles, lifting a perfectly sculpted brow.

“So, Scott told Allison, who told me, that you have a huge dick,” she announces, not bothering to keep her voice down. Stiles chokes on the coffee he had been trying to consume.

“What. Why was Scott even talking about my dick?” Stiles all but yells, casting a look around, and dropping his voice to a harsh whisper, “Why was Scott talking about my dick?”

“Scott and Allison are kinky, who knows why they talk about anything they seem to talk about?” Lydia stirs her green tea with her straw, and takes a sip.

Stiles remains suitably confused, but has to admit to himself that they are pretty kinky, if their `bestiary-bestiality’ misunderstanding in high school is anything to go by. He stares into the dark void of his past as he remembers those dark, dark days.

“So, is it?”

“Is what what?”

“Is your dick incredibly large?”

“Lydia, I’m not telling you that information. That is classified, top secret, no can do.” Stiles grins, lifting his eyebrows pointedly. Lydia narrows her eyes.

“Even if you wear all those baggy pants, Stiles, I have ways of finding these things out,” she says, cheery and a bit frightening. Stiles scoffs, and looks away from her--

\--And meets Derek’s eyes again.

Woah, intense. He can’t seem to look away, wonders if Derek heard their conversation, realizing that Lydia is some sort of maniac genius (for the umpteenth time in his life). He blushes despite himself, abashed, and tears his gaze away to swallow nervously.

“Oh, damn-- I have a paper due myself. Time is slipping away from me. I’ll have to go. Will you be at Allison’s party tonight? Not in the same outfit you’re wearing now?” Her eyes trail over his clothes as she stands, slipping her sunglasses on, and grabbing her things.

“Uh, yeah, I guess. Scott’ll probably convince me to go somehow.”

“You have a weakness for Scott that will only ever get you into trouble,” Lydia agrees, bending to give him another kiss on the cheek. “Wear tighter pants.”

“So you can see the outline of my freakishly large penis? I don’t think so,” he teases, and she smiles, turning swiftly, her hair spinning around her in a display only suitable for shampoo commercials. He watches her until he can’t see her anymore, shakes his head, sighing.

Without looking at Derek, he throws his empty cup into the trash bin, grabs his laptop, and leaves.

* * *

 

There’s something to be said about Stiles’ decisions, and it’s not something good. Usually ever. Like that one time Stiles convinced Scott to help him try to find Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest (it was really the Beacon Hills Preserve, but technically it was forbidden, by their parents, and Stiles was absolutely convinced Voldemort was killing unicorns in there), only for them both to end up in some sort of hunting trap, upside down. Or that one time Scott asked him to play vet, and they ended up being chased down by Mr. Baker’s rather large dog.

The point is, none of his decisions ever really have great outcomes. Including the decision to follow Scott to this party.

For one, he’s a terrible drunk. Following that, he’s a terrible drunk.

God, he’s so drunk.

“WHAT DID ALLISON PUT IN THESE DRINKS,” he yells over the din.

“Dude, we’re in the kitchen. It’s completely silent in here. You don’t have to yell,” Scott laughs, holding a red solo cup in his hands.

“YEAH ME TOO.”

Scott gives him an amused look, quirking one side of his mouth up, eyes sparkling.

He looks so happy. Scott looks so, so happy, and Stiles is so, so happy for him. Like, if Stiles was currently a dwarf hiding Princess Allison from the Evil Queen--Mr. Argent-- Scott would be Charming. Oh, but he himself would be Happy.

“You know you’re saying all of that out loud, right?”

He wonders if Derek’s the kind of guy that thinks dwarves are sexy? Derek would be sexy. Like, his dwarf name would be Sexy, but he would also be sexy, because he is sexy. But the real question is, would Derek let Allison continue to hide from the Evil Queen at their residence in the woods?

“You’re so wasted, dude. I should be filming this.”

“Did you tell Lyds I have a large penis?”

Scott spits out his drink.

“Yeah, that was my reaction too, bro,” he nods solemnly, tipping his own red cup back to swallow down a healthy mixture of whatever the fuck this shit is. Seriously, what is this stuff?

Allison interrupts his thoughts as she trips into the kitchen, running into Scott (who steadies her), giggling and flushed.

“Princess Allison, don’t worry, I’ll let you live with Derek and I in our small cottage,” Stiles slurs, closing his eyes. The room is spinning a little.

“THAT--” Allison cries, then looks around and lowers her voice, “is what I’m here to tell you. Derek is here!”

“Oh my god, he’s in this kitchen?!” Stiles jerks around, regrets that decision (like all of the other decisions), and grabs onto the kitchen counter, steadying himself. “I don’t see him.”

“No,” Allison giggles again, “No he came in place of Lau-- Lor-- Launa!”

“I don’t know who that is, but she sounds amazing,” Stiles says honestly, and then leaves. He wants to see Derek.

The living room is loud and hot, a sea of red solo cups, and there are too many bodies, but the music is good, so he kind of just lets himself move around as he scours the floor. It takes longer than he thought it would to find him, but, then again, he does keep stopping to dance it out with a random stranger every few seconds.

Oh God, but the wait is so worth it. Derek’s wearing sinfully tight jeans, a deep red henley, and that godawful (perfect) trademark stubble.

When he gets to Derek, he forgets that personal space is something that exists. Well, actually, he’s sort of lost any grasp on perspective. Derek startles, his hands gripping Stiles’ arms to support him. His brows furrow, and Stiles frowns.

“Why are you so angry all of the time?” He asks, holding onto Derek’s forearms. Derek seems to consider him for a moment, before he sighs through his nostrils.

“What are you doing here? Are you following me?”

“This is Princess Allison’s house. Well, actually, her dad rented it out for her so she doesn’t have to live in the college apartments? That’s his only redeeming quality. House-renter,” Stiles states, looking off to the side, “What are you doing here?”

“My sister is friends with Allison. She thought it would be rude if at least someone didn’t appear,” Derek admits reluctantly, scowling down at his cup of fuck if anyone actually even knows.

“Oh, dude. Your sister’s got you socializing against your will,” he squawks, “ I’d bet fifty bucks you’d rather be at home, with those reading glasses, caressing a book.” He nods with a smug grin, then pauses to think.

“Did I tell you that you’re Sexy?”

Derek seems surprised, which is odd since they live together in the woods, and Stiles calls him that every day.

“How many drinks have you had?” Derek’s face slips into something Stiles would call amusement, except his brows are still angry, angry caterpillars. “What?” Super angry, really distracting, sometimes break-dancing, caterpillars.

“Is it hot in here?” Stiles asks, pulling at the collar of his shirt, as he stretches his neck to the side. Derek’s jaw clenches and his eyes seem to fixate on the long column of Stiles’ throat. “I swear my neck always gets the hottest out of all my body parts. You should blow me.”

“Stiles.”

“You know my name,” Stiles says, pleased, and Derek tenses.

“I heard it in passing,” he grumbles, and takes a swallow of his drink.

“Are you going to blow me?” Stiles points to his neck, and Derek stares at him with his eyebrows trying desperately to meet his hairline, “Blow on my neck, dude, I’m really hot!”

“Blow on your neck?” Derek’s face is the picture of incredulity, but Stiles doesn’t seem to care.

“Yes-- take your lips, round them out, and expel air onto my neck so that it doesn’t feel like I’m drowning in lava,” Stiles pauses, and then turns. “THE FLOOR IS LAVA!”

Everyone close enough to hear his yell screams, jumping onto the nearest furniture. One guy tries to climb a floor lamp, but ultimately fails when he falls, taking the lamp with him. He looks traumatized as he lays there.

Stiles laughs as he turns back to Derek, and then pulls at his shirt again. He looks at Derek expectantly and Derek furrows his brows.

“Fine.”

He grasps Stiles’ forearm, pulls him through the crowd of people still laughing and dancing. The entrance to the house is a narrow hallway, darkened and cool. It’s a stark relief compared to the sweaty bodies stuffed inside the living area. Stiles wobbles a bit, so he presses his back against the wall behind him, relishing the chill of it through his clothes. Derek comes to stand in front of him, and Stiles grins at him.

Derek gets closer, pressing right into Stiles’ space, and Stiles inhales sharply as Derek grips his chin and tilts his head to the side, exposing the long column of his neck. He leans forward, noses along the flesh there, raising goosebumps as he goes. Stiles can feel Derek’s lips trailing across his skin, feels him rounding out his lips until he’s blowing out cool air. Stiles shivers at the contact, leaning his head against the wall. It makes him dizzy, so he grabs at Derek’s forearms and shuts his eyes, feels the room spinning even then. Derek seems to take his time, expelling cool air onto the entirety of his throat.

He lifts his head up, and he’s so close that Stiles’ eyes cross trying to look at him. They don’t move.

“Are you kissing me? Because I can’t feel my face,” Stiles says after a moment, and Derek pulls away, blinking, until an incredulous grin appears on his lips and he shakes his head.

“No,” he begins, “I think you should stop drinking now.” His voice is light, and he seems to be on the verge of laughter, and Stiles feels his stomach flutter, his face warming at the sight of something so real, caused by him.

“I really don’t think that’s a problem, dude. If you want, you can lay with me on this bed. We can do, you know, things that involve beds. Mattress sale.” Stiles flings his hands back to caress the surface behind him.

“You’re leaning against a wall, Stiles.”

“Keep saying my name like that, bud, and I’m going to huff and puff and blow your... wait,” he pauses, presses his eyes closed hard for a moment, trying to remember, “Wow, Derek how are you spinning your body like that?”

Derek’s giving a him a weird look, but he’s still smiling, so Stiles grins back at him.

“Do you have a ride home?”

“Oh no, I’ll just walk to our cottage in the woods.”

“Sure. I’ll find Allison and see if you’re staying here tonight,” Derek announces, “stay there.” He points at Stiles’ chest and then the floor, and Stiles throws his hands up in surrender.

Stiles watches him go, and how did Derek even fit two bowling balls into the back of his jeans?? He sees Derek’s shoulders shaking and shrugs himself.  
  
When Derek gets back, Stiles is WOP WOP WOP WOP WOP WOP WOP. Allison laughs and joins in, and Derek furrows his brows and crosses his arms until Stiles grabs them and tries to teach Derek how to WOP.

By the time Derek leaves, Stiles is on the floor rubbing his face against the beautiful carpet.

He got Derek to smile! That counts as a win, right? And he didn’t even say anything stupid or do anything inappropriate.


	2. It's Like The Library Is The Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek shows his true colors and Stiles loves Boyd's ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [it's been 84 years](https://img.ifcdn.com/images/14696e9f6ec6bc2c7ed57ae9f0eaf5ae539ea4500d191d93b88bcee26f777aab_1.gif)
> 
> also, i feel obliged to point out that this chapter has like half the word count of the first chapter, even though it _has_ been 84 years. y-you're welcome *finger guns*

“Oh God, I said and did stupid, inappropriate things,” Stiles groans to himself as he slouches in his chair at the coffee shop. He has his eyes sheltered from the damnable sunlight in the crook of his elbow, even  _ with _ sunglasses on. He has a light hoodie on, the late October air starting to dip into lower temperatures, but he has the hood up and he doesn’t plan on taking it down.

 

“I’ve seen  _ and  _ heard worse,” a voice says from above him, and Stiles flails up and back, spluttering and then freezing as he stares up at Derek. “All of it from you.”

 

“Uh, yes, okay, that’s a good point, I guess,” he flounders, having not really expected to see Derek so soon. Hadn’t really expected to see Derek again, ever, really. He’s pretty sure he threw up on Derek’s shoes at some point.

 

“Did I... throw up on your shoes at some point?” He asks, squinting one eye shut as if he’s waiting for Derek to rip him apart verbally--  _ or _ physically, the guy is pretty ripped. Objectively speaking. The image is totally not a turn on. Would that be weird?

 

Derek seems amused as he pulls out the chair opposite Stiles, setting two coffees on the table and then taking a seat. “That was Scott,” he answers, eyes alight with some sort of mischief that doesn’t seem entirely possible for him, and Stiles makes a note to praise Jesus and also apologize to his best bud.

 

“Am I still drunk?” He asks, because he has to be, because what is Derek even doing  _ sitting with him?  _ Stiles is pretty sure he didn’t make a good impression last night (or anytime before that), if his slightly mottled, hazy memory is anything to go by. There was a definite brain-to-mouth filter malfunction, he’s sure of that much. Lydia showed up sometime before his puking episode, but she probably took one look at him, scoffed, and went to dance with Jackson or have sex upstairs or whatever hot people do at parties.

 

“Mm, I think that’s the hangover talking,” Derek says, sipping his drink, not a care in the world. It’s freaking Stiles out. Where are his books? Where is his glare? His eyebrows no longer appear as if they’re bodyguards for his eyeballs. What is  _ happening?  _

 

“That coffee is yours,” Derek lifts his eyebrows and sweeps his eyes over the drink pointedly, flickering his gaze back up to meet Stiles’ eyes. Stiles’ mouth is parted in confusion. 

 

“You know my order?”

 

“Same as mine,” Derek answers, taking another sip of his drink. Stiles has the decency to blush, and he picks up his coffee, holding it close to him. 

 

“Hey, how come  _ you _ don’t have a massive hangover, huh? I’m pretty sure  _ everyone  _ had a hangover. I still have no idea what I was drinking, either, and Allison is withholding vital information,” he trails off as he leans in to take a sip of his coffee.

 

“I don’t get hangovers.”

 

“You’re a regular Ron Swanson.” Stiles scowls without malice, resting his head back on the table after he sets his drink down. His head is pounding and nothing is really helping. He doesn’t drink often because he’s such a menace when he does, and-- okay, is Derek touching his arm? 

 

“He’s a magic man, mama, oh he’s got magic hands,” Stiles sighs out under his breath when Derek’s light touch seems to lessen his headache considerably, his whole body feeling warm. Maybe it’s the blood rushing to his cheeks? Seriously, it’s like Derek’s a walking, living bottle of Ibuprofen. Hmm, Ibuprofen with stubble. 

 

“Seriously, are you doing something to me?” he asks curiously after a moment, going to touch Derek, and Derek jerks his hand back, stiffening. 

 

“What do you mean?” He asks, his line delivery failing spectacularly. Note: Derek is not an actor.

 

Stiles looks at him incredulously, but doesn’t prise, because obviously Derek doesn’t want to talk about it, whatever  _ it _ is, and Stiles is all for avoiding confrontation where possible. Unless he’s pissed. 

 

“So, uh,” he begins, but doesn’t really know what to say, “I guess you stayed long enough to please your sister? I mean, I’m guessing you were there for as long as I was doing embarrassing things.”

 

“She was satisfied.” 

 

“Woah, don’t be so detailed when you reply, some of us want to talk, too, Derek,” Stiles grumbles, pushing his head back into his shelter. Derek may have magic hands, or full use of The Secret technique, but Stiles is still ridiculously tired and sick-feeling. 

 

“She’s trying to force me to make friends. I’m not good at it,” Derek says after a moment, gazing out of the window, and Stiles props his chin onto his arms, looking at Derek from behind his sunglasses. 

 

“Shocking, really, with the way you treat people sometimes.”

 

“People haven’t really given me a reason to treat them nicely,” Derek says, looking back at him with raised eyebrows, matching Stiles’ sarcasm. 

 

“Not all people are the same, dude.”

 

“Not all people are trustworthy.”

 

“What about me?” Stiles can’t help but ask, since Derek is here and he’s being shockingly open. 

 

“I can’t figure you out,” he grouses, going for his coffee again. 

 

“Fair enough. So what are you doing sitting...” Stiles flings his hand out, referencing to Derek in an up and down motion. 

 

“Trying to figure you out,” he replies with a grin, and Stiles barks out a laugh, causing several people to turn their way. He makes a face to himself as he turns away from their gaze. 

 

“God, it’s like a room full of supernatural creatures. Like, they all have that creepy super-sonic bat hearing? Am I right?” 

 

Derek stares at him blankly. 

 

“What?” he asks after a moment of intense eye sex. Well, he’s having the eye sex, he’s not really sure if Derek is, but it sure looks like it. Those wooly worms doing the Cha Cha on Derek’s forehead really turn him on. He wonders, vaguely, if he’ll ever find another metaphor for eyebrows.

 

“Nothing, just-- do you know... anything about me?” 

 

“Uh.” Stiles hesitates, because, sure, he knows a lot of things about Derek. He’s been pseudo-stalking him for months. Well, it’s not really stalking, he was just admiring him from afar, while also inadvertently learning things about him. He doesn’t say this out loud, of course. “I know your coffee order, that you love to read, and you have a sister who makes you do things?”

 

Derek searches his eyes for a moment, then sighs as his phone begins ringing. 

 

“What,” he answers sharply, and Stiles hides a grin behind his sleeve. 

 

“Ha, that’s hilarious, they never come up here.” His expression says a million things about who he’s on the phone with, and Stiles bets a jillion nathanfillion million dollars that it’s his sister. “ _ Peter? _ ”

 

Stiles takes another gulp of coffee, watching Derek’s face filter through emotions as the voice on the other side talks. It’s actually pretty entertaining. Put that shit on HD, thanks.

 

“What do you mean they’re investing here?  _ Multiple properties? _ What, are they crashing our place while they fix things up? That’s perfect. This coffee shop will now be my home.” He pauses, and then his eyes flicker up to meet Stiles’, and he looks so disgruntled. “Shut  _ up. _ ”

 

Stiles laughs and he watches Derek try to cover the phone, which just makes him laugh harder. He’s never had siblings, but Scott is close enough and he  _ knows  _ that voice. Laura is teasing him. The poor guy doesn’t stand a chance against her. 

 

“No, I’m not saying that. I’m hanging up.” So, he does, slipping the phone back into his jacket pocket. 

 

“Family coming up?” Stiles asks conversationally, as if he hadn’t just given Laura some sort of ammo, whatever that means. Stiles thinks it means good things, like maybe Derek’s mentioned him?

 

“They’re in property investment. They found some properties up here that they’ve decided to conquer. Of course, they can’t live in those properties while they’re redoing them--”

 

“So they’re crashing at your place. Sounds fun-- how many?”

 

“Mom, Dad, my little sister Cora, my older brother Gabriel, Uncle Peter, his wife, Elaina, their baby, Brian, and Aunt Joanna--ten, including Laura and I.” 

 

“Sounds really nice,” Stiles says, sincerity written on his features. He’s always wanted a big family, ones that gather on holidays and tell embarrassing stories about each other. He remembers the last Christmas he celebrated, when he was eight, the flame from a warm fireplace casting shadows that danced under the prominent cheekbones of his sick mother. She had grinned so bright the fire dimmed in comparison, even if she was in pain... even if she was withering away in front of him. The smile falls from his face as he stares blankly at the table, lost in a world filled with antiseptic and obnoxious beeping--

 

“Stiles!” He jerks back into awareness to see Derek staring at him with concern.

 

“You okay?”

 

“Yeah, totally fine-- just, you know, thinking about how much of a pain in the butt family can be. You’re probably pretty angry you have to share with so many people. S’ya know...” He makes a sturgeon face, shrugging a bit to emphasize his point. Er, or, well there wasn’t really a point, he was just emphasizing the point that would’ve been there had there actually been a point that he... was pointing... at.

 

“My family has zero understanding of the word privacy. Put us all together in the same house and they might as well be living my life for me, especially my mother.  She’s, ah--”

 

“The Alpha?”

 

Derek’s pupils dilate as his head snaps back to look in bewilderment at Stiles. 

 

“Woah-- wrong term?”

 

“Ah, no,” Derek starts, furrowing his brows, “surprisingly accurate term. She’s just used to being a leader.”

 

“Parents are always going to baby you, but you know that, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Derek says, which is just about the only thing he can say, “Yeah.”

 

Stiles sighs, sipping his drink. “I need two thousand hours of sleep before I’ll be able to handle anything.”

 

“I… need to go to the library, it’s a quiet place. Do you…,” Derek seems to cut himself off, looking at Stiles intently. Stiles gives him an open grin.

 

“Cheating on your other books, Mr. Hale?” Stiles questions and laughs when Derek scowls at him. “Sure, I’ll go.”

 

“Good,” Derek lifts his eyebrows as he stands with his bag, a look that Stiles can only translate to, ‘get up and let’s go.’ So he grabs his backpack, crammed full of assignments, and they go. 

  
  


The library they go to is pretty big, but it  _ is _ on a college campus. There are students staring intently, or blearily, at screens, and one or two students are passed out in random places. He can’t blame them. He knows he has homework to get done, and he knows he isn’t excited about it. 

 

Derek drifts over to the return shelf, placing books down with care. He really does love books, and it’s definitely not super-mega cute or anything. Derek glances back at him, and Stiles averts his eyes quickly, grabbing a book and cracking it open in an attempt to keep his flaming face hidden behind the pages. 

 

“Oral Sadism and the Vegetarian Personality?” Derek asks as he walks back up, and Stiles is left momentarily confused, mouth hanging open. Derek is looking at the book in his hands and he shrugs. 

 

“Uh, yeah, this book is… I have no idea what it’s about,” he says quickly, as he shoves the book back where he picked it up from, trying to prop his elbow up on the shelf, missing, and then trying again, successfully. “What are you looking for?”

 

If Derek notices the quick change in topics, he doesn’t say anything, bless him. 

 

“A couple of books for writing class. I’m actually supposed to be ‘observing’ people and writing down everything that comes to mind. The library is as good of a place as anything I could think of.”

 

“Sounds, you know, fun, though, better than the page I have to do for my psychology class,” Stiles says, thinking about the empty word document that will be staring him in the face once he gets on a computer. Inevitably, he will start browsing the internet and he  _ will _ only realize how much work he hasn’t done once he looks up from the screen to see that it’s night time. “Where are you sitting?”

 

“Over here,” Derek references, and they both fall into an easy silence, working on their assignments. Stiles finds himself stealing glances at Derek, whose eyes are skimming the people coming and going. He’s so intense about everything he does, and a memory of Derek focusing on him comes up so quickly his fingers falter on the keyboard, a string of letters following. 

 

Derek looks over, but Stiles is too busy erasing an  _ afdkalfjsl;  _ that he doesn’t notice. Derek grins, scribbling notes down on his writing pad. 

 

Time moves without either of them noticing. They’re too intent on their assignments and stealing glances at each other to notice much else. Students filter in and out as the minutes tick by, and by the time Stiles looks at the window, it’s dark outside. 

  
He sweeps a look towards Derek, who is watching him with those hazel eyes of his. Stiles swallows, but doesn’t look away. 

 

‘ _Yeah, he looooooove this fat ass hahahahahaaahahahaaa. Yeah, this one is for my bitches_ \--’ Stiles jerks upright, pulling his phone out and cursing himself for being distracted by Derek so much he forgot to silence his cell before he came in. Some people are giggling at him, while others are glaring, and some of them look like they just figured out they were in the library and not in the time period of whatever paper they’re trying to write. He glances at Derek as he answers, who seems to be trying to hide a smile as he writes something down.

  
Oh no.

 

“Vernon Milton Boyd IV, did you change my ringtone?” He hisses into the phone, and hears the deep rumble of Boyd’s laugh over the line. 

 

“No,” he answers, though there’s far too much humor in that syllable than there should be. 

 

“I expected it from Erica, but you? You wound me. You wound me in my heart, Boyd. We did a paper together-- does that mean so little to you?” Stiles throws a hand over his chest. 

 

“So you don’t really love this fat ass?” 

 

“Boyd, you know that I think you are art probably sculpted by the reverberations of Morgan Freeman’s voice, with the shoulder-to-waist ratio of Captain America. My love for your ass is a given at this point. But our love is a secret. Erica would kill me if she finds out about our tawdry affair. Also, the entire library is looking at me like I said, ‘Cream is the best part of the Oreo.’”

 

“Uh, no, it’s the cookie.” Stiles hears Derek whisper without looking up from his assignment, the ghost of a grin on his lips, and Stiles frowns because wow, he thought he liked Derek _before_.

 

“So, are you breaking up with me?” Boyd asks.

 

“No, sugarbear, I’m not breaking up with you. Just tell Daddy when you’re gonna change his ringtones, okay?”

 

“That was the single worst sentence that has ever come outta your mouth and I wanna rewind that moment and press mute so I don’t have that particular memory, but it’s too late. I’m offended, my ears are offended, I won’t be able to have sex with Erica for weeks,” Boyd deadpans, sighing into the receiver. 

 

“Okay, pumpkin. What did you call for? To cause me general embarrassment? I can do bad all by myself, you know.”

 

“I got you tickets to the Mets game.”

 

Suddenly time stops. 

 

“I’m Drake and I’m sitting on the chair and I’m stuck, Boyd. I’m  _ sprung _ .”

 

“Nobody’s been sprung since 2008, Stiles. Anyway, this is for helping me with all those papers.”

 

“Bruh, you did most of the work, I just... supervised,” Stiles says sincerely, saving his paper to his USB drive, his phone in the crook of his neck. 

 

“I know my strengths and I know my weaknesses, Stilinski,” Boyd says, tone brooking no argument. It’s not like Stiles would argue with him, except that he would. Boyd is smart-- a lot smarter than most people give him credit for. Sometimes, Boyd does this weird thing where he doesn’t  _ think _ he’s smart and Erica has done a really great job with helping him change that mindset, but sometimes he still needs a bit of reassurance. “Plus, tickets like these are no issue.”

 

Boyd is a part time security officer for baseball games when he’s not in the equivalent of Fight Club (aka, classes). It works for him, because he’s a hulking mass of sexy muscles and nobody really tries to mess with him because of it. Except for the women, and the occasional gay. His milkshake just tends to bring people to his yard.

 

“You gonna say something, Stilinski? Lydia told Erica that you would need some sort of miracle to impress that guy from the coffee shop after last night--”

 

Derek’s eyes swivel to meet his, like he can hear Boyd, and Stiles frowns largely, swiftly hooking his USB on his frankly embarrassing pink fob (which has a few choice keychains that Derek should not be seeing, including a Sailor Moon piece, a vintage Tamagotchi, several keys he is positive he shouldn’t own, and a few awful installments from Hot Topic.) (They say things like ‘fries before guys’, which is true where curly fries are concerned, but does Derek need to know that? Does he need to understand what type of person Stiles is before Stiles even has a chance? No.)

 

He holds a finger up to Derek and moves away from the table, crowding himself near a shelf. 

 

“What do you mean Lydia told Erica I’d need a miracle? What does that mean? I think I did a pretty good job considering I’m  _ with him right now,”  _ Stiles emphasizes, feeling largely offended for himself. It’s like the people in his life have no faith in him whatsoever. Okay, well, so, he hasn’t had the best luck so far with Derek, but he’s been known to pull bigger bullshit out of his ass at a moment’s notice. It’s fun at parties. 

 

“You’re with him right now?” Boyd asks, and Stiles shuffles nervously. 

 

“Yeah, so what?” he asks, and Boyd goes suspiciously silent.

 

“Are you... with him, with him?”

 

“What?” Stiles asks, momentarily annoyed, and then he understands what Boyd is implying and his face goes red. “What?! BOYD.”

 

“ _ What? _ You have strange priorities,” Boyd says, calm as ever. 

 

“I’m in the library, Boyd, you need to stop, drop, and go to church. Ask for Jesus to cleanse you and then get a priest and exorcise the Erica right out of you,” Stiles instructs, and Boyd snorts. 

 

“Alright, so you want these tickets or not, Stiles?” 

 

“Of course I want the tickets. I want to get married to those tickets and you can be the best man.”

 

“Don’t tell Scott that,” Boyd deadpans.

 

“Scott can marry us, it’s fine. Thanks, Boyd, this is amazing.”

 

“Nah, you’re just the only asshole I know rooting for the Mets.”

 

They hang up after Stiles calls Boyd rude, and Stiles holds onto his phone for a moment before making the decision. 

 

Derek is tucking his writing books back into his messenger bag when Stiles strolls back up, holding his breath. 

 

“Hey, sorry about that,” he breaths, and Derek graces him with the prettiest grin he’s ever seen. “So, um, I was wondering...”

 

Derek continues watching him, eyes roving over his face as if he actually might like looking at it. Which, wow, yes, that’d be really nice. Also, unrealistic. Good try, Stiles. 

 

“Um… I may have fallen into some tickets…? They’re not illegal! I just sold my time to my friend and he decided to go the extra mile and ruin me for other people.”

 

“I don’t know what that sentence meant, but you’re asking me to go with you to…?”

 

“Baseball game! The Mets! Versus… a less important team.”

 

Derek appraises him for a moment, before nodding. 

 

“Okay.”

 


End file.
